Home
by whiskets
Summary: A sequel to "Be Still & Know" but can be read independently. After all of the trauma Jane has suffered at the hands of Hoyt, she continues to have nightmares. Maura knows that Jane needs more help than what she can offer... again, don't want to give anything away. Pre-pilot but spoilers for 1x01. One-shot.


Title:** Home  
**Series: Rizzoli & Isles  
Rating: Eh, we'll stick with "T"  
Pairing: I'm going to borrow Ark Thirtysix's words: "Rizzles is in the eye of the beholder"  
Timeline: Tenuously seven months before the pilot, but post Hoyt. Picks up after my other story "Be Still & Know"  
Disclaimer: Nothing, but the ideas presented, are mine. No infringement, and, of course, no money gained.  
Disclaimer Part 2: Still nothing owned, ideas alone, no infringement intended. "Home" belongs to Vanessa Carlton as well as her label.  
Synopsis: A sequel to "Be Still & Know" but can be read independently. After all of the trauma Jane has suffered at the hands of Hoyt, she continues to have nightmares. Maura knows that Jane needs more help than what she can offer... again, don't want to give anything away. Pre-pilot but spoilers for 1x01.

* * *

A/N: Several peeps read the first story "Be Still & Know" and asked for a sequel. I guess this is it. I would highly recommend that you find Vanessa Carlton's "Home" and give it a listen...

* * *

I sit in my personal car and listen to the engine growling, audible, even with the doors closed and windows shut. I move the gearshift from drive to park, glancing in my rearview mirror to survey the lot behind me. The parking lot contains a few cars and some foot traffic, but I don't get the sense that anyone is paying particular attention to me. I look at my reflection in the mirror. I look a little better than I did a month ago, less pale, but I still feel tired. I heave a long sigh and kill the idling engine, opening the door and stepping into the cold weather Boston presents to me this day. I lock the door manually and shut it, glancing around once again. My eyes are hidden by designer sunglasses, a gift from Maura, after a particularly rough morning following too much whiskey the previous night. I see a guy pass me, feel his eyes appraising me, know he's checking me out. I straighten, drawing my suit jacket closed, keeping the badge and gun hidden. I shut the door and climb the curb, walking briskly on the sidewalk, the way I do with every crime scene I approach.

My eyes travel up the path to the tinted glass door. I force myself not to read the words etched in white even as I purse my lips and feel my shoulders draw back, making me look even taller than I am. I glance around the waiting room, a habit that reveals nothing new about the room. It contains the same bland yet comfortable small row of seats, the same dry fichus in a brown clay pot, the same serious looking receptionist. Her fingers fly over the keyboard in front of her and she doesn't speak, allowing the click clacking of plastic to cover the silence between us. It's not her job to make small-talk; anyway, I appreciate her silence. It's just us in this empty room. Her desk is directly across from the glass door and I cant my body so that I can see the door as well as the tablet computer I review. I input data, tap a key to accept what I've filled in, my eyes moving over the receptionist. She ignores me, or she is unaware that I'm watching her.

Maybe she doesn't care.

I decide she is exactly the right person for this job and turn to walk and settle myself in one of the plastic seats. The room is absolutely silent, I realize after a moment, with the exception of the typing noises. The receptionist doesn't even seem to breathe, doesn't shift, doesn't make person sounds. It is unsettling and I find myself wishing she would make small talk. I start to fidget, the plastic chair creaking slightly. There aren't any magazines in the room. I want to play Angry Birds or text Maura, maybe read my email, but I've left my cell in the car, secured in the glove box. Instead, I focus on my breathing, using that which I've been taught in the yoga classes Maura insists we attend, to slow my pulse, even as I fight the urge to chew on my thumb.

My eyes find the steady read light over the only other door in the room and I fixate on it. I begin to count in time to my breathing, an OCD tick I've suppressed but never grown out of. I have reached five hundred in my head and I see the light flip from red to green. I stand, the chair creaking as my weight leaves it, and hear my knees pop in the silence. I grimace, flicking my gaze to the receptionist. She makes no indication she's heard any noise from me, though she meets my eyes and nods once. It's my turn.

The door opens silently at my touch. Perhaps they routinely spray the hinges with WD-40? The hallway is white, just like the waiting room, with industrial gray carpeting. I think it looks a little off, like the gray was chosen to hide the dirt, or break up the otherworldly feel of the office. I think Maura wouldn't like it.

I pause in front of the red door, finding the color creepy in so much whiteness. It stands out, like blood at a murder scene. I take a deep breath, putting my hand on the painted wood, and push, feeling very much like I'm stepping off a cliff, about to succumb to the effects of gravity without resisting. I shut the door behind me quietly, hearing the tiny click of the catch. I look at the small black box beside the door and turn to it, ignoring, momentarily, the woman seated across the room from me. I already know the rules. I pull the leather holster from my belt, leaving my Glock holstered and drop it, along with my badge into the box, shutting it. The key feels much too powerful in my hand, for such a small piece of metal, and I don't like the feeling that accompanies its release when I drop it into the woman's waiting hand. I feel my walls slide even more firmly into place. I have cop's eyes, hard and unreadable, to everyone except Maura. And this woman is not Maura.

She waits until I choose a seat to speak. There is an antique reproduction of a fainting couch, which I refuse to sit on, and her desk, which, despite my horrendous manners, I will not perch on like a child. I choose the third option: a high-backed leather chair I've seen in Maura's home-office. As I sit down, I feel the difference in the texture and know that it isn't really leather.

I study the woman, even as I feel her eyes on me. She is petite, smaller than Maura, dressed in clothes that relay her professionalism and neatness. Her eyes are almond-shaped and dark, with smile lines around them. I judge her to be about forty-five, based on the light streak of gray that runs through her otherwise solid brunette hair. It is cut short, the edges framing her face in attractive layers. She seems quiet and self-possessed, confident as she regards me. I wonder what she sees, what she can read on my difficult face. I hope she sees nothing.

I am uncomfortable. When I am uncomfortable, I resort to aggression or humor. I am not in a laughing mood.

"So…how does this thing work?" I ask, leaning forward slightly, my voice carrying the Boston attitude.

"Well, Jane. We talk. You tell me what's going on with you and I try to help," she speaks softly, but her words carry across the room.

"What if I don't want to talk?" I'm being difficult on purpose. I cross my arms over my chest and lean into the high back of the chair, trying to disengage, to show how much I don't want to do this.

"Then we sit here and stare at each other until you decide to do something else." She lifts a slight shoulder in a half-shrug, giving me attitude right back. I find myself smirking at her. I kind of like her. We settle into silence and I let my eyes drift around the room again. I spot two things that make me wonder: an empty chessboard and a baseball in a collector's box. Both are set out of the way. I get up suddenly, wanting to know who signed the ball, and move to the desk, to the right of where she's seated, to pick up the ball. My hand reaches for the plastic case before I remember my manners. I freeze and turn my head to look at the doctor.

"May I…?"

She nods, features blank. I pick it up, recognizing the scrawl immediately. I turn the case over in my hands. "Ted Williams?" I ask, raising an eyebrow, impressed despite myself.

She nods again.

"Real or replicated?"

She chuckles. "Do you think I'd put an unauthentic ball on display? No, Jane, it's his signature."

I drift back to my seat, collector's case still clutched unknowingly in my hand.

"I like the Red Sox," I say suddenly, my eyes on the ball. I rattle off the player's stats, the numbers I can contain in my head the way Maura's contains all of the world's knowledge as I accuse her on a daily basis. I smile slightly at the comparison between us, not thinking about the woman across from me.

"What? What are you laughing at?" she asks gently. I look up and am surprised to find the upturn of lips, a ghost of a smile on her features, encouraging. I shake my head.

"Nothing," I reply and see a hint of disappointment before she composes herself again. Probably no one else would notice it, but I'm a cop. I'm trained to observe. I spear her with my gaze and my voice changes, dropping automatically into the tone I use for interrogation.

"So tell me: how does a Virginia native move from the warm south to the frigid land of Boston?"

She blinks at me and I see a small smile cross her features. "Impressive, Jane."

I shrug. "I can Google, so what?"

The smile grows slightly. She knows I'm smarter than that, and she's right. I wanted to know who I was talking to, because Heaven knows she's looked me up. Hard to not know who I am, given my ties to a notorious serial killer.

"All right. I was born in Richmond and went to school at UVA. I met someone." I've already noticed the ring on her left hand.

"We married and moved up here. He's from the area."

"Where did you meet?"

The smile blossoms fully. She holds up a slender finger, halting further questioning. "I think it's my turn to ask you something."

I exhale in a huff, my lips thin as I consider her words. I arch an eyebrow at her and nod my concession. I wonder, briefly, if she realizes this is the furthest we've gotten. Maybe third time really is the charm.

"Why did you come to see me?"

I snort derisively. This is an easy question to answer. "My best friend talked me into it."

She shakes her head. "No, Jane. Why specifically me?"

I tilt my head and think about my answer. I stand up and move towards her as she watches me warily. I quietly hand her the plastic case. Wordlessly, I hold my hand out to her. She drops the key into my palm and I turn away, walk the few steps to the black box. I retrieve my gun, put it and my badge back in their proper places on my side. My back is to her when I respond, though I can feel her eyes on me. I turn so she can see my profile, the gleam of mischief in my eyes.

"You like the Red Sox."

I have a wicked streak, one that influences my sense of humor. I think I hear her laughing quietly as I exit the room. The red door closes behind me. So much for my third session, but at least we actually talked this time. I wonder if she is thinking the same thing.

"Maybe I'll tell you next week, Doc," I say softly, my eyes on the gray carpet, knowing she can't hear me. My tread is light as I leave the building, using the discretionary door, scanning once more for any observers before I get into my car and drive to Maura's.

* * *

I hand Maura a glass of white wine as I stand over the island in her mansion. My beer is already open and half-empty. She unconsciously lifts the bottle, wipes the wet ring and places a coaster under it. I hide a smile as she takes a sip of her wine, resting the long stem glass on its own coaster. I take another long pull as I watch her. She waits for me to swallow before she asks, "Are you going to go see her again?"

I pretend to think about it. Really, I've already made up my mind. I nod. Maura has been good about not asking, though she knows I've been to see the doctor a few times.

"Yeah."

Maura puts a warm hand on my shoulder. "I'm glad," she says and her voice contains a hint of pride that I don't understand.

* * *

Nearly two weeks after my confession and I'm still not sleeping well. I have spent nearly every night with Maura, in some way, shape or form. I have fallen asleep on the couch, with her right beside me, and in either of our beds. It's strange. I don't mind being reliant on her but I hate the idea of monopolizing her time. I fear she'll get sick of taking care of me and I want her not to have to. I don't tell her this, of course, partly because I'm afraid I'll be right and read it on her face. She is just as bad a liar with her body language as she is with her words. The only way to get past this obstacle, to resume my life as the old Jane Rizzoli, is to get help, in the professional sense. If only I can learn to trust Dr. Lincoln.

I sit down on the couch where the game is already on. Maura is looking out for me again and I smile genuinely, perhaps for the first time that day, as she sits down beside me. She brings her feet up, tucking them under her dress and leans into me. Her body is warm against my shoulder and I try to let the presence of my best friend and a good ball game distract me. It doesn't work, however, and I soon feel the sense of dread begin to creep into me as it gets later and later into the night. Soon, I will have no choice. Maura will force me to sleep and I'll dream…

I wake up, hours later, shaking, covered in sweat, Maura by my side, promising me that I'm fine and that's she here for me. My hands ache and I tremble with reaction. I lie down and mimic sleep, for my friend's sake, but never drift off. Instead, my eyes find the baseball nightlight Maura bought for me. I stare at the illuminated piece of plastic until the sun rises.

* * *

The next day, I am guarded and on edge and Maura notices. Hell, Frost and Korsak notice. They are smart, though, and give me my space as we work a crime scene. My eyes drift over the victim but I can't focus. Everything seems to be a blur, a constantly shifting monotony of images that I can't keep track of. I find myself rewriting the same notes twice. I miss the looks that are exchanged between my old partner and my new one, but Maura doesn't.

I really have no choice. I'm going to have to talk to her, to convince myself to trust someone. I fervently hope Dr. Lincoln can help me. That evening, before I make the appointment, I do something I haven't done in a long, long time.

I pray.

* * *

It is Friday again and I find myself in the same white room. It has rained all day and my hands have ached, pulsing, it seems with each drop of precipitation that falls.

"Psychosomatic," I murmur to myself and then glance quickly at the receptionist. She still makes no sign that she knows another person is in the room, let alone that I have just spoken out loud. I give myself a little mental shake and try to prepare myself for what I'm about to do. I've made the decision to trust Dr. Lincoln. I'm through with the nightmares. My eyes find the red bulb above the doorway and I watch it. Dr. Lincoln has instituted an intelligent system, so that patients never have to see each other. It affords us a sense of anonymity so that we don't have to talk to anyone about the fact that we are getting help…that we _need_ help. I hate admitting that, even to myself, that I need help. Admitting it to Maura was hard enough. The light above the door flips to green and I stand.

* * *

"You don't display any of your degrees, your credentials?" I ask curiously as my eyes sweep the wall behind Dr. Catherine Lincoln. There is a strange lack of framed paper on the back wall, where most academics keep it. Maura is the only other person I know who doesn't do that. I add Catherine to the list. It makes me like her that much more.

She shakes her dark hair. "No. Why should I? I know where I graduated from and," she spears me with a look, an eyebrow raised, "so do you, after last week's conversation."

I nod. I am seated in the fake leather chair, gripping its arms, allowing my fingers to dig in, leaving indents in the fabric. I find the action soothing but don't know why I feel rattled. Catherine hasn't asked anything hard yet, but I think that being in her presence intimidates me, which is ridiculous, but there it is. I drop my eyes to my hands and see the raised skin gleaming white. I relax my grip and the mounds of scar tissue fade to match my natural skin tone. I look up and catch her looking at my hands, too. My mouth twists and I feel anger grow where previously only curiosity reigned.

"What are you looking at?" I snap, crossing my arms so that my hands are well hidden.

"Your hands," she responds calmly, her face a smooth mask. I search her face and read her body language. She is calm, despite my outburst. "And it's my turn to ask a question."

I am suddenly furious at myself. I wasted my question asking about something as stupid as documentation? And, I revealed too much of myself, snapping at her like that. I fear what she is going to ask me.

I am already shaking my head in denial.

She pauses, tilts her head, her dark hair falling to the side. "You don't even know what I'm going to ask you."

"Yeah, I do," I say, voice harsh with anger. "You're going to ask me about Charles Hoyt."

Her mouth twists. "Actually, I was going to ask you if you ever played the piano."

I start and feel…confused. I did play the piano, once, and I was good. My voice is okay, a low alto, though sometimes I can hit the higher notes, which limits what I could sing. But…I flex my fingers and remember, in times past, when my fingers used to ache to play. If I'm honest with myself, the piano was one of the things I used to love. I am shocked into answering.

"Yeah…yes…I did, a long time ago."

"But you don't anymore."

She phrases it like a statement, something definitive, like I'll never play again. I flicker my gaze to the baseball on her desk.

"No. I don't anymore." I look back at her and something in her eyes catches me, holds my gaze.

"Why not?"

I smile and it is cold and humorless. "See? I told you you were going to ask about Charles Hoyt."

"If I asked, would you tell me about him?"

She puts the question out there, openly, for all to see. I want to say no. I fall silent and contemplate my options. I _am _here for a reason, even if I'm not ready to reveal it to the psychologist. Maura knows me too well, and has figured it out a month ago, when I was afraid to tell her, when I couldn't sleep. It has taken her this long to convince me that I can trust someone else, someone besides her. I'm still trying to convince myself that Catherine Lincoln is that person.

"Maybe," I respond. Catherine nods.

"Thank you, Jane."

Confusion crosses my features. "What are you thanking me for? I didn't do anything." I don't understand.

She smiles gently, and for a second, I see Maura in her place. "You gave me an honest answer."

I contemplate her response and move my thumb over the scar tissue on my right hand unconsciously. I feel a kind of daring recklessness come over me. I take a deep breath and blurt out, "Ask what you want."

Catherine raises both eyebrows and looks at me, giving me time to rescind the insane offer I have just made. I bite my tongue and hold my breath, clenching my jaw. My thumb continues its circle around the old wound.

"What do you want to tell me?"

I realize what she is doing. She is trying to give me control, so that I feel less vulnerable discussing a…topic that unnerves me, makes me tremble, creates nightmares. I laugh, though there is no humor in my face. I feel my guard drop a little as some of the pain bleeds through to my expression. Catherine sees it but doesn't comment. She just waits patiently, like we have all day.

I sigh and stand up. As before, I feel her eyes on my back, tracking me as I move around the office. "I need a rubber band," I say into the silence, my voice sounding desperate in my ears. Catherine gets up from her seat and walks slowly behind me. I feel her pass by me, at my back, and I tense. I know she sees it, but, again, she lets it go, most likely storing it in her brain for later analysis. She opens her desk drawer and lets me choose. I pull out a blue rubber band that is twice the size of the usual. I reclaim my seat, not looking to see if Catherine does the same and keep my eyes on the blue band. I twist it in my hands, keeping my eyes on the random shapes I make, fidgeting as I begin to speak.

"I don't want to be a victim."

I say the sentence and my voice is clear and proud, with a tinge of anger.

"I think you can understand that." When I speak this time, my voice is even, without emotion. My eyes are on her face.

Catherine nods. I know she understands. She closes her eyes and I see varying emotions cross over her face. She pinches the bridge of her nose for a moment, as if she's trying to ward off an oncoming headache. I've seen Maura do it before.

"You know about me, don't you?" she asks without opening her eyes. I wait until she does before I reply.

"Yes," I say simply. "You asked me last week why I came to you specifically. I…" I pause and think about my words. She drops her hands to her lap, folding them. She looks at me and it seems she's already accepted my condolences.

"I am sorry that happened to you…" I hesitate for a moment. "But I need someone who will understand, someone I can trust. The only other person I have trusted with this is Maura and I've…I've been leaning on her too much lately." I shake my head roughly, wishing I could change that.

"I don't want to be a burden." The sentence comes out small.

Catherine nods. "Will you allow me to ask what I want?" her voice, usually so region-free, carries a drawl of the south to me, the only clue that she is still upset by my previous admission. I stand up abruptly, letting the rubber band fall to the floor. I turn hastily and walk quickly to the box. "I-I'm sorry, Dr. Lincoln, I shouldn't have come back," I say, rambling, searching my pants pockets for the key. I just want to leave this office. This was a terrible idea and I can't believe what I've done, bringing up her past. I don't hear her behind me until she clears her throat. She is holding the key out to me. Her brown eyes are dark and unreadable.

"You can leave, Jane," Catherine says gently. "If you want. But I'm not upset. I understand why you came to me, now, and I appreciate you telling me. I can help you, if you'll let me."

My hands stop moving, poised above the lock box, and we are frozen for a moment. I am turned towards her, my eyes moving from the key to her face, trying to read her, to verify her sincerity. I feel my heart pounding. I feel like a jerk, springing that information on her. It wasn't fair of me, even if it is the truth. I am surprised to see that she is serious. She doesn't want to throw me out of her office. Catherine wants to help me. This southern woman is all steel magnolia.

I swallow hard and nod once, letting her retract her hand. She moves slowly, almost delicately, and resumes her seat once more. I do the same, mirroring her slow, deliberate movements. I pick up the rubber band and fidget with it once again, waiting for her to ask.

"Will you allow me to ask what I want?"

Mouth dry, I can only nod. "Yes," I force out in a whisper. The sense of dread is pushing in, twisting my guts, making my pulse speed up. I don't realize how rough my breathing is becoming.

"What happened between you and Charles Hoyt?"

Silence falls then, so thick as to be tangible, in the room as I gather my thoughts. I feel anger and use it to give me strength.

"Charles Hoyt is a sociopath and a serial killer." I shrug, portraying a sense of apathy that I don't really feel.

"My partner and I were working different leads and the stress of the case…" I falter and close my eyes, remembering how tense our relationship became, how much strain we felt. "It tore us apart," I say simply. "I was working late one night, by myself and I got a hunch. I thought I knew where the Surgeon, what the media was calling him, had taken his latest victim. There was no time," I try to explain, remembering the feeling of the cell in my hand as I drove recklessly, blue lights flashing in the darkness. I had already punched in Korsak's number, hit send. I remembered the yelling contest we had on the phone and the rage that had followed.

"I wasn't even sure if I was right, but we were in such a bad place that he said he wouldn't come, even though I gave him the location." I shake my head. I lock eyes with Catherine and know I have a captive audience for my story.

"So, like a moron, or a desperate cop, I went into the basement." I close my eyes as images and memories rise to the forefront of my mind.

"Hoyt was waiting for me, in the shadows. I saw the victim, knew she was in a bad way, and never saw him. He hit me with a two-by-four, splitting the back of my head open and leaving me unconscious. When I woke up, I was on my back and my hands were pierced, one scalpel in each palm, pinning me to the floor." I still haven't opened my eyes and I can feel the tension humming along my skin. I don't want to see Catherine's face. I clench my hands and force myself to breathe as normally as I can.

"Hoyt was standing over me. There is not a doubt in my mind that he would've tortured me more before killing me. But…" I open my eyes and drop my gaze to the twisted rubber band. "Korsak ultimately came to my rescue and shot him. He didn't die," I say and laugh bitterly. "Unfortunately, he lived. And I lived," I mutter. I take a breath and paste a lopsided smile on my face. "And that is the story of Detective Rizzoli and Charles Hoyt."

Catherine is quiet for a long, long moment. I take turns clenching and unclenching each of my fists, wrapping the rubber band around my hand, or forming geometric shapes with its length. I don't look at her.

"How long ago was this?" she asks softly.

I do the simple math in my head. "A little more than seven months ago."

"And when did the nightmares start?" Catherine asks matter-of-factly.

I start, jerking in my chair, and she smiles faintly. "Remember, detective, I know what it's like."

I arch an eyebrow at her ironically. "Yeah, Doc, I guess you do. They started once I was out of the hospital. I think the drugs kept me from remembering them when I was at Boston General."

Catherine sighs. "So you've been trying to deal with this on your own for more than seven months?"

I nod, feeling a little guilty. "I talked to Maura about them," I offer meekly.

"When?"

"About a month ago," I confess quietly. I feel another twinge of guilt because, even then, I hadn't told her that I'd been having the nightmares since I got out of the hospital.

"What about through the department?"

I frown then, my expression dark. "I-no. No. I went through the review board and, once I was clear, I stopped going. They were a waste of time. I couldn't trust that doctor…he was a company man."

Catherine nods, understanding perfectly. "What do you think about medication?"

My features knit together, growing even darker. "That's what the department shrink did-put me on something to make me sleep. All it did was trap me…"

"We'll bypass medication for now, then," she says gently. Her eyes focus on mine. "Jane, what do you do to feel safe?"

I consider the question. There are my firearms, of course, and Jo Friday, though she is more of an early warning alarm, not a guard dog, locks on the door and…Maura. I express my thoughts to Catherine. She cocks her head, thinking about my response.

"Tell me about Maura."

I smile slightly. "Maura's my best friend."

"What else?"

"We met at work. She's the Chief Medical Examiner. She does the job because she knows she can help the dead. She's kind and compassionate. She is one of the best people I know," I say simply. I lift a shoulder in a half-shrug. "I really don't know how to explain her."

Catherine narrows her eyes. "Is Maura who you meant that you didn't want to be a burden to?" she guesses shrewdly.

I nod. "She's done so much for me, Dr. Lincoln. I can't keep…" I trail off.

"Keep…?" she presses.

I roll my eyes and shake my head, not sure how to phrase my response. "I don't know…I can't keep forcing her to babysit me."

"Have you told her this?" Catherine asks the question simply, as if it really is that black and white.

And maybe it is.

I shake my head. "No."

"Can I make a suggestion?"

"Shoot, Doc."

"Tell her. I have a feeling, if she's the person you're describing, that that won't be the case at all." She smiles and I return it tentatively, storing that idea in the back of my head.

"In the meantime," Catherine returns my attention to my nightmares, "I want you to try a kind of meditation practice each night before you go to sleep. I want you to list the things that you know keep you safe. Then, I want you to close your eyes and focus on each of those things. See them in your mind's eye, in all the detail you can and…we'll see what happens."

"We'll see what happens?" I echo flatly.

Catherine nods. A smile slips in quickly and leaves the doctor's face just as quickly. "This is not a perfect science, Jane. It's going to take time to undo what that monster did to you." She hesitates for a moment. "I think that some type of medication also needs to be implemented, but I understand why you're reluctant to do that. So we'll try this first."

I nod once. I understand what she's saying. "Dr. Lincoln…" I pause, let her read the expression on my face.

"Yes, Jane?" she asks patiently. I think she knows what I'm about to ask.

"What did you do? To get past it? To forget?"

Catherine's smile contains lines of pain. "What did I do?" she repeats. "I found my mother's killer and testified against him. I got past it by reminding myself daily that he is confined to a concrete and steel box and will die in prison. Sometimes I go to her grave and talk to her."

The smile turns heartbreakingly sad as Catherine meets my eyes.

"Jane…I'll never forget."

She doesn't say it, but I know we're both thinking it: Neither will I.

* * *

Dinner at my apartment is a quiet affair. I feel subdued, weighed down by the knowledge that an accomplished woman like Dr. Lincoln has all but told me that recovery is a daily process. I suspected it, but having it confirmed…that was a different story. Maura sips her green tea slowly, her hazel eyes watching me over the rim of the mug she holds one-handed. I haven't told her about any of my sessions with Dr. Lincoln and she respects my privacy. I think about what Catherine suggested: that I ask Maura whether she is sick of me yet.

My best friend sits down her mug, opens her mouth to speak and then doesn't, closing it with a snap. She pokes at the chicken dish she has made for the both of us, the name of which I can't and haven't tried to pronounce. I'm sure, on any other night, it would be delicious, but tonight I can't seem to taste anything. I'm on my second beer, letting the alcohol wear down my inhibitions as I consider asking her the question that's weighing on me.

Maura can tell something's wrong with me. The crease in her forehead, where her brows knit together, let's me know that she's worried but doesn't know what to do or say. She knows I've gone to see Dr. Lincoln today and I can almost read her thoughts as she wonders if my silence has something to do with what was said there. I take another long sip, swallow the amber liquid down and meet her anxious eyes across the table.

"Maura," I begin and my voice is hesitant, soft. My stomach clenches and I am suddenly glad I haven't eaten much as it turns over roughly. What will I do if she confirms my fears?

"Yes, Jane?" she replies quickly.

"I need to ask you something."

Maura is quiet, waiting for me to speak.

"Am I a burden to you?" The words are whispered. I can barely hear them myself.

Maura starts, her eyes wide. A startled laugh escapes from her mouth. I frown, not expecting that response.

"Is _that_ what's been bothering you lately?"

"You noticed?" I ask, surprised. I thought I had been doing a pretty good job of keeping it to myself.

"Of course I noticed, Jane," Maura says, her eyes softening. "You're my best friend. I notice everything you do."

I nod but I'm not satisfied.

"I made the same mistake I made before, when I realized you weren't sleeping: I waited for you to tell me. I could tell something was bothering you, more than what we were already confronting. I wasn't sure what it was," Maura finishes, looking at me expectantly.

"So…that's a…no to the whole burden thing?" I ask, stumbling through, as she still, infuriatingly enough, hasn't answered my question.

Maura stands up, and I watch her come toward me with a mixture of apprehension and wariness. She stops in front of me and sticks her hand out to me. She pulls me quickly to my feet and I notice, with her heels on, and me barefooted, we are nearly the same height, standing as close as we are. She looks into my eyes and I feel the intensity in her gaze.

"Jane, I love you like the sister I've never had," Maura says with sincerity. "There are many things you are to me. A burden could never be one of them."

I hug her then, feeling the tension ease out of my shoulders. We stay like that for a moment and then break apart. I sit back down and resume my dinner. Despite the coldness of the chicken, it suddenly has appeal, and just may be the best thing I've ever eaten, flavored with relief.

* * *

It is late in the night when I climb into bed. Shutting my eyes and attempting sleep is still a daunting idea and I fear what my nightmares will be like. My eyes drift to the nightlight, illuminating the doctor in question lying on her side, facing me. I feel her eyes on my face. I close my eyes and start to breathe deeply, beginning the meditative process Dr. Lincoln has described to me.

I think of sure aim and the stopping power of .40 bullets.

I envision the locked doors, both the front and the door to my bedroom.

I think of Jo Friday and hear her warning bark in my mind.

My lips twist into a smile as I think of the woman beside me, the Queen of the Dead, who has worked so hard to bring me back from her realm. With Maura around, I no longer feel or function like a zombie. She makes me human. She keeps me safe, returns a sense of security I've lost.

* * *

I open my eyes the next morning as sunlight streams over my face and I see that Maura is already awake. She stretches and smiles at me. My heart is pounding, not with fear, but with joy. I have slept the whole night through without a nightmare. I know that's why she's grinning like a fool. I match her smile with my own as we get up, leaving the bed unmade and go into the kitchen for breakfast.

My expression doesn't dim, even when I drop an egg on the floor and have to clean it up before Jo can get to it. Maura shakes her head and rolls her eyes.

"What?" I ask, my voice a joking protest. "What'd I do?"

"I don't think you did a thing," Maura says. "I think Dr. Lincoln did."

I reach across the table and grab her hand. I look her in the eye. "No, Maura, you're wrong for once," I say teasingly. Then my voice grows sincere. "Dr. Lincoln didn't fix me. You did."

She squeezes my hand and offers me another smile. We sit down and eat. I think about how true my statement is. Without Maura, I would've been lost. I never would have had the courage to go see a psychologist, to work through the trauma. Without her…who knew where I'd be?

We finish breakfast and I am stacking dishes in the dishwasher when Maura speaks.

"Are you going to keep seeing Dr. Lincoln?"

"That depends," I answer, hiding my smile.

"On what?"

"On if you mind sharing me with another doctor." My expression breaks as I tease her.

She rolls her eyes but can't keep her expression severe, as she is pretending that I am not funny. I know I am.

A frown crosses my face as I think of something.

"Maura…?" I say and she turns to look at me, something like concern in her expression.

"I want to show you something…" I close the dishwasher door and hear the machine power on. I'm not really thinking about it, though. I'm thinking of my third bedroom with its closed door. I'm thinking about what's contained inside of it.

I pad softly to the door and open it. This is the room I store things in. I glance at Maura's face. It is puzzled but politely interested as she follows me into the bedroom, her eyes taking in the stacked boxes in one corner, old police files, from my rookie days, holiday decorations, boxes marked for a yard sale. Light streams in from the curtained window, bathing the room in a soft, yellow glow. She stops, surprise flashing in her eyes as she looks at the baby grand piano sitting in the corner of the room.

I pull my eyes from her face and focus on the dark wood of my favorite instrument. I move around the wall, swipe the dust off of the bench and lift the cover, revealing the keys. I sit down, place my fingers on the ivories and close my eyes. I drift my hands gently across the keys, playing a simple exercise as a warm-up, testing the piano and myself at the same time. Somehow, it is still in tune. I resettle my hands and begin playing in earnest. My voice lifts, the words tumbling from my lips as I play Vanessa Carlton's "Home", a modern song that seems all too fitting in this moment.

"_Some people live on a house on a hill and wish they were someplace else. There's nobody there when the evening is still, secrets with no one to tell. And some I have known have a ship where they sleep. The sounds of rocks on the coast. And sail over oceans five fathoms deep. They can't find what they want the most. _

_And even now, when I'm alone, I've always known, with you, I am home. _

_Some live in homes, cardboard shack on concrete. All blustered and bustling life. They search for the color you can never quite see cause it's all white on white. _

_And even now, when I'm alone, I've always known, with you, I am home._

_And even now, when I'm alone, I've always known, with you, I am home."_

I play the bridge, smiling softly, my eyes still closed.

"_For me, it's a glimpse and a smile on your face. The touch of your hands. An honest embrace. For where I lay it's you I keep, this changing world I fall asleep. With you all I know is, I'm coming home._

_Coming home."_

I hold the last note out and open my eyes for a moment, noting that Maura has moved to my side. Maura's face is calm and peaceful as she watches my hands dance across the keys. I close my eyes again, lost in the moment, as I lean over the keys, feeling the music move through me, the way it did once before, when Charles Hoyt was just a faceless man, someone who meant nothing to me.

My fingers slide daintily through the notes, muscle memory taking over, never forgetting the movements, the complicated slides in the song as I move through the outro.

I finish the song, the last note fading into the still morning air. I look to my right and see her face.

Maura smiles at me proudly.

"That was very impressive," she says at last.

I smile self-consciously and drop my hands into my lap. "It's kind of my way of saying thank you."

The moment is broken as our cells ring almost simultaneously, the sounds just loud enough as they ring in the kitchen. We each answer, speaking our last names into the devices. There is another murder, another body, and an addition to our case. Seemingly, just like that, I am back to normal. I head to my bedroom to get dressed and Maura heads towards the guestroom, where she keeps her clothing. Just before she enters the door, I call her name. She pops her head back out.

"Yes?" Maura asks.

"I am going to keep seeing Dr. Lincoln."

I pause, making sure she's looking at me. "And…I'll play for you whenever you want."

Her eyes are dark for a moment as she comprehends the statement, and everything else that I didn't say. She nods once, her honey blonde hair bobbing and then she disappears into the bedroom.

One thought filters through my head as I walk into my bedroom: thank God for Maura. As I get dressed, I hum the chorus.

_I've always known, with you, I am home._

* * *

A/N: So...I hope you liked it. And that you listened to the song as it contains some seriously intricate pieces of piano. Really, the lyrics don't do it justice...but there's no way to embed music so I really hope you looked the song up haha :) I don't know that Angie could reach some of the higher notes but, oh, well, this is fiction, right? Please **REVIEW**! Thanks y'all. :)


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